Expectations
by Roga
Summary: She's just waiting for him now. J/D


EXPECTATIONS By Dana 

**Disclaimer: **The characters all belong to Aaron Sorkin and his… gang. Hmm. That sounds vaguely ominous. 

**Spoilers:** None.

**Summary: **She's just waiting for him now.

**Feedback, Archiving:** Always, to both. Tell me, tell me, tell me!

**Thanks:** To the inspiring _Evelyn_ and the amazing _Yana_ for betaing. You are-oh-see-kay ROCK. 

* * *

If he gets down on one knee and opens with "Donnatella Moss," she swears she'll kill him. 

The thing is just too cliché. She doesn't want him to call her Donnatella Moss, like... like an asset. Like a possession to inherit her from her father if he calls it by its proper name. She doesn't want a romantic candlelit dinner in a fancy restaurant and a ring in her champagne flute. For one thing, there's the whole originality issue. For another, she's vaguely concerned that the situation could turn hazardous. How can you fret over tiny bones in your fish and not worry about a piece of metal flushed down your throat? 

No. She wants him to call her Donna, and she wants it to be special. She feels like for _once_ she deserves the opportunity to say "I told you so" to her mother, to Ben the Bastard, to her family, to the entire damn state of Wisconsin. Her whole life she's been looking forward to this moment, and she knows he won't disappoint her. 

She's just waiting for him now.  

Every day he racks his brain, trying to figure out how to do it. He's ready. He knows-- he hopes to God-- that she is. They're going to get married, they've planned a future together, they just haven't discussed _this_ specifically. A wedding. He doesn't much care for the wedding itself, but he's breathless with anticipation at the thought of her being his wife. 

The first thing he did was dismiss the idea of proposing in a restaurant. He knows Donna wants something memorable, and romantic. Something that would make a nice story to tell afterwards. 

But being inventive is suddenly pretty damn hard. This is a once in a lifetime thing--or so he hopes-- and he can't screw it up. He can prove to her that he's a man of occasion. 

Donna tries to imagine what it'll be like. Maybe he'll take her someplace exotic. But Hawaii is pretty much out of the question, and she doubts any place in town that could be described as "_exotic_" would be appropriate for a proposal. 

A sunset, then. That's close enough. Somewhere quiet, where they'd be alone. The beach--no, cliffs by the ocean. On a day with slightly rough weather, so there'd be clouds coated with creamy shades of orange and pink, and they'd sit together, encompassed by an aura of gold. She'd be leaning against Josh and he would rest his chin on her head, staring at the ocean, and without turning to her say: "Donna."

And she would instinctively know what he means, look up at him and answer the question he hadn't yet asked. "Yes."

Just out of curiosity, she starts researching East Coast beaches.

Maybe I'll do it in public, he considers. He's a powerful man. Many people owe him favors--he could probably arrange a proposal on national television if he wanted to. Have it run across the CNN newsbar at the bottom of the screen, perhaps. Or print it in the Washington Post.

Right. Because that would be a fantastic use of the Press.

He wonders how embarrassing it would be to run onstage after the President finishes one of his speeches and declare his undying love for Donna and a passionate desire to spend the rest of his days with her. And as an added bonus, he thinks, this approach would likely play well with the public. No man in his right mind would pull a stunt like that if he didn't mean it. The cameras would zoom in on Donna's exuberant, laughing face and whoosh! There goes the phrase "_sordid affair_" straight out the window. He could even clear it with the Secret Service beforehand. Come to think of it he had _better_ do that first, otherwise he might just wind up back in Room 203 of the GW ICU. And neither he nor Donna would be particularly pleased with that outcome.

Donna starts thinking that maybe he's planning something in the bullpen when people begin to whisper conspicuously whenever they think she's out of earshot. One time she goes as far as to peek in Sam's bottom drawer, where she could swear she saw him hide a small black box. It turns out to be a spare pack of staples. She should have guessed; Sam has spare everythings. She scolds herself for becoming this paranoid. Still, a White House proposal could be nice. Josh can be very extravagant when he wants to be. A short speech, written with the assistance of the Communications Director and his Deputy followed by an announcement by the Press Secretary, or better yet--the question itself, delivered in front of the Press Corps.

She shudders at that thought. Josh would never have CJ ask the question for him, and to a room of reporters? It's too... fake. 

The President, though, he wouldn't be above asking. Donna wouldn't be surprised if one evening--at a State Dinner--the President turned to the Spanish Ambassador and, eyes twinkling as usual, formally stated: "Allow me to introduce Joshua Lyman, my Deputy Chief of Staff, and his fianceé, Donnatella Moss." Josh would shake the man's hand and do his best to look natural, but he'd be bouncing on his toes, and she, in return, would politely (because a foreign diplomat was there, after all) smack him behind the ear. "You couldn't have asked first?" He might smirk at her and then she'd attempt to frown, giving up finally because inside she'd be bursting with happiness. Donna smiles at the thought. 

A new idea springs into Josh's mind as he's watching a program on the Discovery Channel, although he fails to find a connection between mutant squids and his inspiration: Nature. That's what he needs. Take her back to the country, or... someplace they've never gone before. They've never gone out on a picnic, have they? He could cook--though, he has to admit, sandwiches would constitute a significant portion of the meal--and hide the ring somewhere. The champagne flute, although he's slightly worried that she might choke on it there. Or they could do it at the beach and he'd come beforehand, build a sand castle (he's a whiz at those, horrifying as it is to admit), somehow work in a metaphor about a king and a queen. 

If not a beach, a forest? He suddenly remembers an old friend who was in the Boy Scouts, where they built stuff with wood and ropes. Twenty years later his friend used those skills to construct a huge sign on a low hillside, with words made out of thin wooden logs wrapped with newspaper. He took his girlfriend to the opposite hill that night and had a friend light up the newspapers. The words "_MARRY ME ANGELA_" blazed against the night sky. 

Romantic, yes. But then again, Josh really doesn't want to get within a hundred feet of a fire the size of a small building. 

He's not an outdoorsman anyway.

In his opinion, a baseball game would be best. Or a football game; anything with a large neon scoreboard. And by best he means insufferably romantic in a theoretical way (you see it in movies all the time, but he doesn't recall ever hearing of an actual incident where it happened) and yet, somehow, more... manly. 

But if he starts looking for a chance to tell Donna: "Clear my schedule, we're going to a game tonight"--well, that's that right there. One guess to figure this one out.

She hopes she hasn't been building expectations that are too hard to fulfill, because he's taking so long now. And then, one night, he decides that he's tired of waiting.

They're wrapped up in her sheets and he's kissing the inside of her elbow. She's lying on her back, waiting for him to look at her, but he doesn't. His back rises as he takes a deep breath, looking as if he's about to say something, then lets it out in a whoosh. She frowns. "What's wrong?"

For a brief instant he lifts his head and she catches a sheepish smile. "I--Donna--" With a groan he drops his head, clutching his hair with nervous fingers. He's propped up on elbows conveniently placed on either side of her waist, and his forehead is flat against her stomach.

He doesn't know what to say. He thinks about beginning with "will you do me the utmost honor--" but it's the one phrase he promised himself he wouldn't resort to. He can't stand the clichés. He wants this to be uniquely _them_ and not something he can quote from a bad chick flick… but he's reached the moment of decision and suddenly he's terrified, and he doesn't even know why.

He desperately wants to tell her so many things. I want you, I need you, you're magnificent, you make me better, you support me, you sustain me, you _complete_ me... 

Gently, she takes hold of his sweaty palm and caresses it with her thumb. And suddenly she realizes

that she's got all the "I told you so's" right here, in her bed, and this is exactly where she wants them. Him. For the rest of her life. 

She breaks into a spontaneous smile. "Joshua Lyman," she opens.

There's a second where his entire body seems to all but radiate relief, and then he looks up at her face, recognizing the question she hasn't yet asked.

He grins.

* * *

**~The End ~**

Note: One of the nicer ideas here is a true story of how my cousin proposed. See? There's still hope!


End file.
